


alone, together

by RedLights



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: 1920s, Bread, Confinement, Drunken Flirting, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Isolation, Minor Hugh Collins/Dorothy "Dot" Williams, Mutual Pining, No Plot/Plotless, Pining, Quarantine, Resolved Sexual Tension, Romance, Sexual Tension, Smut, Virus, Yearning, cabin fever, coronafic, stuck together, thirst, what do i tag this yall, wink wink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:14:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23391532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedLights/pseuds/RedLights
Summary: Phryne and Jack come in contact with an unknown virus. Jack gets stuck in quarantine at Phryne’s house for a week. They definitely don’t social-distance.
Relationships: Jack Robinson/food, Phryne Fisher/Jack Robinson
Comments: 67
Kudos: 145
Collections: QuarantApril





	1. isolate, from the french isolé

Mac called early, before even Mr. Butler could pick up the phone. She tried three more times. Some time later, as Phryne was strolling downstairs towards the smell of scones, there was a sharp rap at the door. As she pulled the door open she was overcome by a yawn. Jack had just opened his mouth to speak and shut it with an exasperated look, waiting for her to let him in. Phryne stepped backwards with a flourish of her dressing gown, wrapping it around her white silk pajamas as Jack removed his hat. 

“Miss Fisher, Dr. MacMillan has been trying to reach you for hours.” Jack’s voice was stern, sterner than usual, and slightly frantic. 

“At this hour? Goodness, Jack, whatever for?” Phryne placed her hands coolly on her hips, affecting more alertness than she really felt at half-past seven.

“The corpse we examined last night-“

“Rather late last night,” Phryne interjected, but Jack expertly ignored her innuendo. 

“-apparently contained a dangerous pathogen. We both need to take precautions not to contaminate anyone until the doctor knows what this is, and if it was the cause of death.”

Phryne’s delicate eyebrows had knitted together in concern, and she swirled around to reach for the telephone. “Mac?”

_ “Phryne, finally! The Detective got to you then. I’ve nearly identified the pathogen, but I can tell you for certain that it’s viral and it’s dangerous. The three of us need to remain quarantined for a week to be sure you won’t infect anyone.” _

“A week!” Phryne exclaimed. “Mac, are you quite sure?”

Jack was turning his hat over in his hands, watching somewhat anxiously. Phryne turned to him, still holding the receiver to her ear, and nodded. He tilted his head in question, but she only looked at him, listening intently. “Yes, he’s still here.”

A pause.

“Mac! You astonish me, how positively scandalous.”

Jack was itching with curiosity despite himself, hearing only one side of the conversation.

“Well well. Yes, I’ll call if anything changes.” Phryne hung up the phone with a glint in her eye that Jack knew all too well.

“I’m afraid you’re not going to like this at all, Jack.” 

“Miss Fisher.” That intonation of her name always meant  _ drop the games. _

Phryne’s lips, not yet red, curled up in an innocent-looking smile that belied the mischief in her eyes. “The victim's virus is more dangerous than Mac initially realized. We’re to isolate ourselves here for up to a week.”

If Detective Inspector Jack Robinson were any less obviously astute, the expression on his face might be called ‘dumbfounded.’ “Isolate ourselves, Miss Fisher?”

"Yes, Jack, ‘isolate.’ From the French  _ isolé _ , I believe, meaning to sep-"

“Thank you, Miss Fisher, I do understand the word. But isolate ourselves _here_?”( At this point, Jack would own to being in willful denial of Miss Fisher’s meaning.)

“According to Mac, if you go back out now you’d be putting anyone on the streets at risk of an infection she can’t yet cure.”

Jack sighed, a heavy and long-suffering, Phryne Fisher-related sigh. “You did say I wouldn’t like it.”

Phryne smiled brightly. “Now now Jack, all in the interest of public health! I reckon you might even enjoy yourself by the end.” Jack glared, and tried very hard not to consider enjoying himself. “Why don’t you telephone Hugh to bring over some case files, and I’ll go fetch Mr. Butler and tell him breakfast is off.” 

Jack paused with his hand mid-air, about to set his hat down on its usual hook. “No breakfast?” 

Phryne was already halfway to the landing. Her dark hair swung belatedly into place as she twisted towards him. “If I’m stuck here, I’m going directly back to bed. Unless you're planning to join me, I believe you know the way to the kitchen.” And with a final suggestive smirk she danced up the remaining stairs, out of view.

Jack grumbled and hung his hat with more force than strictly necessary, then stalked off in search of breakfast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we are playing fast and loose with the history of epidemiology here, people - pretty sure public health officials in the twenties didn’t know half of this stuff. but! i have decided not to get bogged down by such details in order to focus on writing some close-quarters sexual tension, which is what i need in my life right now.
> 
> chapter two coming up soon; all i know so far is that it contains a lot of flirting and absolutely nothing resembling a “plot”. i love comments so if you have ideas or critiques or suggestions or random thoughts, let’s see them! especially if they’re secret smutty desires that i can maybe write out for you (this is my favorite self-isolation activity)
> 
> Anyway please comment and subscribe and kudos or whatever but mostly, just let me know here or on tumblr @ userredlights if there's anything (G to E rated!) you'd like to see in this little fic. Stay safe and healthy <3


	2. a mixed blessing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 1: Phryne and Jack eat food, banter like an old married couple. What's new.

Phryne woke again well past noon, and dressed for a day in. She found Jack in the parlor, flipping through a manila folder in the seat nearest to a tray of tea sandwiches. “Sleep well, Miss Fisher?” 

“Decadently, Jack, thank you.” She reached for the half a sandwich left on his plate but his hand shot out to grab her wrist, long fingers wrapping far around it. When she pouted at him, he rolled his eyes.

“There’s an entire tray of them there!” He nodded towards the tray, which was indeed full. His cool hand still loosely held her wrist, which looked small and delicate in his grip. How very distracting. She frowned and withdrew her hand, grabbing her own sandwich and folding herself into the nearest armchair.

“Anything interesting?” Phryne asked, nodding towards the files. Jack shook his head, taking a gigantic bite of his sandwich and chewing absentmindedly. Pouting at his inattention, Phryne nibbled at her own sandwich, but was quickly bored and called for the rest of the household.

❦

Dot and Mr. Butler took the news of their quarantine well. Mr. Butler announced his intention to embark on an ambitious cleaning project. Dot seemed relieved to hear that Miss Fisher would be safely in the house for so long, likely thinking how much less mending there would be. She was forlorn when told to cancel an upcoming date with Hugh, but Dot was always happier to be safe than sorry.

About to leave the room with a tray of dishes and what was left of the sandwiches, Mr. Butler inquired about their guest’s accommodations.

“Either of the guest rooms will do, Mr. Butler, you pick. I don’t think Jack is very particular about it.” Jack nodded and smiled gratefully as the butler left to prepare a room.

Jack turned to her, hoping she could read his seriousness. “Miss Fisher, I appreciate the gravity of the situation, but if I am imposing…”

She waved him off. “Nonsense, Jack. Even you wouldn’t risk an epidemic just to be polite.”

_To be polite to_ **_you_** _, Miss Fisher._

Jack nodded, relieved to have said his bit. 

“Now!” Miss Fisher clapped her hands together gleefully. “Shall we discuss the situation over some more tea?”

It had been a mixed blessing that Miss Fisher so quickly figured out that she could feed him into compliance. On the one hand, the efforts of Miss Williams and Mr. Butler were always delicious; on the other, it was all too easy for her to get her way when she waved food in front of him. Pushing a plate of biscuits towards him as he sipped his tea, she convinced him to phone Constable Collins again and ask him to have some clothes dropped off. (“You’d look very dashing in one of Mr. Butler’s spare uniforms, Jack, but I might find it confusing.”) When he seemed reasonably appeased, she even convinced him to loosen his tie. There was little to discuss about the brand-new case, since they had never gotten to collect any evidence, so they talked about old cases. Reminisced, even. But when Jack insisted on finishing the paperwork in front of him, Miss Fisher shrugged and picked up the nearest book. They sat in companionable silence for several hours.

❦

The afternoon quickly fell away, and when the evening light slanted through the parlor windows Mr. Butler popped his head in to announce that dinner was forthcoming. Phryne waved him away when he offered to walk Jack to his room, and with another wave of her hand beckoned Jack to follow her from the room. He could always be counted on to follow her.

She passed her own door and stopped abruptly at the room that would be Jack’s. He was brought to a halt right behind her, and she turned round with a coy smile. 

“You’ll stay here.” Phryne reached for the doorknob at the same time as Jack did, and for an eternity of a second their hands overlapped. Then he drew his hand back, tucking it safely in his pocket, and she turned the knob. She must have said something hostess-like about the washbasin and the fresh linens, but his face was only centimeters from her own as he surveyed the room; with each of them pressed against the door jamb, there was hardly room for coherent thinking. Jack cleared his throat, and Phryne excused herself to go freshen up.

She had just sat down at her vanity when she heard a faint sound from down the hall. He was _humming_ . God, how absolutely charming. Phryne held her breath to make out the quiet melody, and it only took a moment. _Sailing on a sunbeam, on my way to you…_ She’d played that record the night of her birthday, and now the tune always brought to mind a particular image of Jack, lips wet with champagne, smiling at her from across the room. She let herself luxuriate in the memory. Then she reapplied her lipstick, tousled her hair, and made a glamorous face at herself in the mirror before heading downstairs.

❦

Dining with Jack was... fraught. Of course it was pleasant, because they were old friends now, so conversation flowed by muscle memory without needing to be consciously carried. And the food was delicious, a French dish lovingly prepared by Mr. Butler; Phryne had forgotten the name of it by the second glass of wine. The problem was that Jack was _eating_ the food, humming with pleasure when he tasted something new, cheeks hollowing and lips pursing as he chewed, tongue darting out to capture a stray droplet of wine...  
... well. Fraught. 

After dinner, they ended up in the library. They usually sat in the front parlor, but now was as good a time as any to change things up. Jack perused the shelves slowly, a tumbler of whiskey in one hand and the other in his pocket. Phryne kept her head tilted down at the women’s poetry anthology in her hand, but her eyes were on Jack. She thought she saw the hint of a smile as he reached the end of a bookcase.

“Are you aware, Miss Fisher, that this library contains several volumes that would be considered obscene publications?” His face was grave, but his eyes were playful.

“I am indeed, Detective Inspector. Will you be confiscating them?”

“I think I can allow it. Never held much with the idea of policing people’s private activity, in any case.”

Phryne looked exaggeratedly aghast. “Jack Robinson, you do shock me when you speak ill of your beloved law.” He rolled his eyes.

She smirked. “Have I managed to impress your cultured taste in literature otherwise?”

“Well, the D.H. Lawrence is hardly my taste, but we can agree on James Joyce.”

“Interesting! So you do read something besides Shakespeare.” Phryne feigned shock.

“Nothing wrong with the classics, Miss Fisher.” He plucked a T. S. Eliot collection from the shelf and examined it. Phryne examined the veins and tendons of his hand as he did so. “Can’t say I have much time for reading these days.”

“In your line of work, I’m shocked you have time for anything. Not a lot of hobbies in your life?”

“Work is my hobby, Miss Fisher.” She knew that, but she’d had a few drinks now, and she just wanted to hear him talk. “Though you seem to manage several extracurriculars, despite showing up on my cases every other day.”

“What can I say, Jack, I can’t stay away.” _From the murders or from him?_ She didn’t know which she meant, but when a dark look crossed his eyes, she knew he’d wondered the same thing.

Neither of them spoke for a beat, watching each other in one of those comfortable but loaded silences that had become common lately.

Phryne broke it, which she was always loath to do. “Anyway! I have a proposition for you.”

Jack raised his eyebrows. “A proposition?”

“A proposition,” she repeated, knowing how suggestive the word was and relishing it. “I thought we might have a lazy sort of day tomorrow.”

Jack chuckled and looked down, swirling his whiskey. “Miss Fisher, I shudder to think how you’d define a ‘lazy’ day.”

Phryne rolled her eyes. “If we’re stuck indoors, I think we should have at least one good day of rest. We should wear our pajamas and do absolutely nothing.”

The inspector frowned, the twin lines between his eyebrows deepening. “Some of us are compelled to work _every_ day, Miss Fisher, regardless of our personal lives. I have paperwork.”

She fixed him with a look. “Urgent paperwork, that can’t wait even one day? For all those cases you have right now?”

He glared at her, but appeared to mull over the suggestion and find it acceptable. “I suppose, as your guest, I could hardly insist on a different plan.” 

She grinned. “It’s settled then. If I see a tie and vest tomorrow, I’ll be very put out.”

Their eyes met in that particular way that always felt like a challenge, which neither of them ever met.

“Well, I’ll say goodnight, Miss Fisher.” Jack held her gaze a second longer, then ducked out of the room. How did that old cliché go? _Hate to see him go..._

Phryne smiled cheekily to herself, then went up to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can we just say this is set sometime in season three? I didn’t do a single bit of narrative work of my own re: their developing relationship here, so it has to be set around the time they’re realizing their feelings. Anyway! It’s been a long, long quarantine of being stuck in my childhood bedroom, so thank god for Phrack keeping my imagination alive and my spirits up. If you’re as under-stimulated as I am, comments are always welcome. Please let me know about typos and other errors, since I never write without wine and no one beta-reads. I love to chat so you can find me on tumblr @ userredlights :)


	3. like a god among men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 2: Phryne lazes about, Jack tries to stay occupied, they're both very Not Okay with this arrangement.

Detective Inspector Jack Robinson awoke more gently than he had in months. Mornings usually started suddenly: he was asleep, then he was not. Today sensation came before consciousness, with his head sunk into a down pillow, his back nearly aching from the comfort of the mattress, a too-soft coverlet still draped over his shoulders. Jack slept neatly—fastidious by nature and by training—but he always shoved the covers down to his waist in his dreams. He slept too well here.

Looking in the mirror, Jack ran a hand over his jaw. He should shave, but there was little more than a shadow of stubble, and he couldn’t be bothered. After all, it wasn’t as if he had anywhere to be. He did reach for the Brilliantine he found on a tray by the basin and slicked his hair back. Hardly formal, but presentable.

This was the Fisher household, so the sweet smells of a full breakfast greeted him at the stairwell. When he entered the dining room Miss Fisher was leaning forward to help herself to a crêpe, the cowl neck of her pajama top fluttering dangerously at her chest. “Good morning Jack! Sleep well?”

He did hate that tone sometimes. She made everything indecent. “Morning. Very well.” He all but threw his napkin into his lap, reaching to serve himself before he was fully seated. She smirked, perpetually amused by his appetite. Her face was devoid of cosmetics, as far as he could tell, but there was the faintest stain of blood-red at the crease of her lips. Her hair did funny, delicious things when she didn’t bother to tame it: such facts of Miss Fisher always proved difficult to un-notice, however much he wanted to. He focused on his food.

Phryne leaned back in the chair when her plate was empty, sipping something from a champagne flute.

“Miss Williams?” he asked between bites. 

“Mr. Butler and I are conspiring to keep her from spending the day working. I sent a tray up to her in bed.” Phryne set the glass down, and tossed open her kimono. That was cruel. “You should try this, Jack.”

He did. “Delicious.”

“Isn’t it?” Her gaze lingered for a moment, then she pushed back her chair. 

“Well, I’m going up to catch up with Dot for a while. You have the run of the house, of course, lounge as you please.” She leaned over the back of the chair as she spoke, long fingers plucking one last raspberry from the bowl.

“You’re too kind, Miss Fisher.” 

She gave him a bright smile. “Don’t worry Jack, I’m sure you can return the favor sometime.”

He would have to go hole up in the library for the morning. Enough Shakespeare might take his mind off of half-dressed Phryne Fisher making innuendos at him.

❦

Little flecks of domesticity had gathered around them over time. Phryne picked up the phone at the station. Jack picked up the phone in her foyer. She brought him snacks, he brought her whiskey (and murder cases). If he hadn’t been keen on her dropping into his life at first, he had certainly made ample room for her over time. Being predictable, in these small ways - being known - didn’t bother her as much as she thought it would.

After a morning with Dot (spent reassuring her that Constable Collins would not, in fact, forget she existed) and a very long nap, Phryne wandered to the kitchen for a snack. When she reached the doorway, she stopped in her tracks. 

Jack was standing over the kitchen table, shoulders rounded and head down. His shirtsleeves were rolled up just above the elbow, and his suspenders hung loose at his hips. There’s flour highlighting the fine creases of his hands and spattered up above his wrists, clinging to the short blonde hairs. 

He pressed the heels of his palms into the lump of dough, stretching it forward and then folding it back with practiced ease. Nimble fingers plucked the smooth dough from the table and turned it as he repeated the motion, and Phryne watched in a daze. The muscles of his forearm flexed visibly as he worked. She knew the strength of those arms. She wanted to know it even better.

Phryne stepped pointedly into the kitchen, earning a backwards glance and smile from Jack. From this new angle she noticed a button had been undone since the morning, and a faint sheen of sweat glistened on his chest. She had to pull out a chair and sit before speaking.

“A never ending source of mystery! You _bake_?”

“Not a bit, Miss Fisher. I can make bread, however.”

He knew her well enough to know what would spark her interest, and looked back over his shoulder at her. Of course, he found the curiosity he was looking for in her expression, and continued. “My mother taught me,” he offered, still working the dough. “She was always working, so we helped with dinner. Bread was my job.”

She so loved hearing about his childhood.

“So you love your mother and you can make bread. I shall have to be careful not to learn much more about you this week.”

“Why is that, Miss Fisher?”

“You’re shaping up like a god among men, Jack Robinson. I don’t know what to make of it.”

Jack smiled crookedly. “In that case, I shall try not to disappoint.”

Phryne quirked an eyebrow and stood, giving him an appraising look as she adjusted her kimono. “You won’t.” 

Then she was gone with a coy smile and a swirl of embroidered silk.

❦

Seated at her vanity that night, Phryne reflexively went to remove her lipstick, then paused, one finger on her bare lips. She took in the composition of pale pinks and cool whites in the mirror, no kohl or carmine in sight. Girlishly she traced a smile with the tip of her pointer finger, and rushed through her nightly routine. Phryne threw the covers back and left them at the foot of the bed, bringing her fingers back to her mouth. She wrapped her tongue around them, took the first two fingers into her mouth and sucked. Her other hand pushed the covers below her hips and hiked her silk negligee up. One wet finger slipped below her waist into the damp curls, stroking smooth and sure over her clit straight away. She had little patience and even less interest in taming her unprofessional curiosity; how would it feel, if those rough, capable fingers joined hers, if it were Jack teasing her now? 

Remembered images flashed through her mind as her fingers sped up. Jack nearly kissing her on her stairs; Jack kissing her in the cafe; Jack emerging from the ocean, dripping wet; Jack tackling a suspect to the ground; Jack making bread, breathing hard, muscles flexing under golden skin. Egged on by the wine at dinner and years of glances and touches, it only took a minute or two before she was coming, turning her head to bite the pillow as her hips bucked against her hand. She barely had the strength to pull the covers up before she slipped into unconsciousness.

In the other room, the object of Phryne’s fantasy was laying very still, deep in thought. Jack preferred to be irritated with Phryne Fisher, if he was thinking of her. It was a smart professional decision, one he stood by, however exceptional his all-but-partner’s work might be. But as he was currently both blissfully comfortable and up to his ears in longing to be in a different bedroom, he could muster no detached annoyance or nonchalance. In fact, after the most simultaneously relaxing and frustrating day in recent memory, he was profoundly grateful for the appearance of the lady detective in his life. True, he probably wouldn’t have been exposed to a deadly virus if it weren’t for her, but this really was the best place to be now that he had. Being in her house, in her rooms, living in them with her... he felt indecent and ungentlemanlike to relish being surrounded by her this way. And, thinking of how gladly she welcomed him in, how open her every door seemed to be to him, he felt an animalistic entitlement to the space, maybe to her. It was easy to tamp down during the day when they were working, but here, not so much. Here his every train of thought ran directly into her. 

As far he knew, Miss Fisher was proficient in tennis, swimming, various dance forms, fencing, and judo. Based on the ease of her movements, the mixture of grace and ferocity she fought with, these were probably the tip of the iceberg. Her athleticism was beyond impressive. (‘Athleticism’ was a poor guise for admiring her body, but it was the best he could do. And it wasn’t like she minded.) And her generosity - not the methodical and meaningless benefaction of those born to wealth, though she gave freely of herself and her substantial resources whenever called for. No, there was an understanding behind her charity. She was grateful to be in a position to give and give well. It had been so many years since she was a girl from Collingwood, but she clearly hadn’t forgotten what destitution felt like. The Marx on her shelf made sense, now he thought about it.

And that flawless composure of hers. If ever a hair was out of place, everyone would believe it was there by design. Things that shocked other women excited her, and things that would knock grown men off their feet were barely cause to bat an eye. He’d hardly ever seen her lose that composure, and only in times of danger and distress. He admitted to himself now, perhaps for the first time, how much he wanted to _make her_ lose it. Here he was in her house, in bed, thinking about wrecking her. He should be ashamed.

And he would be, except the wicked smile she gave him in his dreams felt realer by the day, and his last thought before he surrendered to sleep was of a red-manicured hand pulling him in by the shirt collar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two things I love passionately: 1. objectifying men 2. bread!
> 
> The rest is drafted but not at all complete, so comment or message me or something to keep me motivated pleeeease! Also if any of yall have tumblrs and post MFMM content, let me know so I can follow you!


	4. frustration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 3: 'frustrated' and 'fond' are two sides of the same coin. it flips a lot.  
> Day 4: in the case of stoics v. hedonists...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a longer chapter for ya, since I think we (Americans at least) could all use the distraction today. as always, remember kudos and comments encourage me to write faster, and I hope you enjoy!
> 
> also, if you want to read this with better formatting, I keep all the finished chapters in a pretty google doc here: https://docs.google.com/document/d/e/2PACX-1vTvBtW7a17SNBkj9g-Cc7gP3ApYqy7OxWj6bTLmaOHkKDdYBa-lktXalPgbzH2r6GW_ZzSXQ661wVfY/pub

## Day 3

Phryne woke to sunlight streaming through the curtains and Jack beside her in bed. She jostled him as she stretched, feeling the length of her naked body sliding against the silky sheets. She felt his fingertips alight on her hip, tracing the contour with a feather-soft touch.

She turned to speak but he captured her lips with his, the hand at her hip pulling her to him. His hands were rough against her smoothness, and she delighted in the drag of all his hard edges against her curves as he kissed her. In her half-awake haze she was burning for his touch. He was hard against her lower stomach and she squirmed, reaching for him, but a hand found her wrist and pinned it above her head, turning her onto her back. “Hands where I can see them, Miss Fisher,” Jack said with a smirk, and she grabbed at the headboard as he lowered himself down between her thighs.

“Miss? Mr. Butler has breakfast. I believe the Inspector is already downstairs.”

Phryne groaned, flinging back the blankets and sitting up in the middle of an empty bed. “Thank you, Dot, I’ll just be a moment.”

Today she would get properly dressed, if only to forget the dampness of her knickers when she woke. She would never shake that dream in a kimono and loungewear. There was a comfortable camisole that would match those slinky trousers she’d yet to wear - and she might as well add some earrings and have fun with it.

❦

Jack had never had much cause to reckon with the onslaught of ‘modernity’, whatever that meant, before Miss Fisher’s graceful cannonball into his life. Now, looking at her idea of an outfit, he was confronted with it, and decided it must be stopped at all costs. If progress was Phryne in a red silk camisole at breakfast, for god’s sake, it was going to be the death of him. The days of tea dresses didn’t seem so long ago, but here she was, settling into the dining chair with her shoulders and most of her chest bare, gleaming in the bright early sun. He had waited for her to saunter in before digging in to the breakfast and regretted it now (his appetite thoroughly redirected).

He cleared his throat before he spoke. “You’ve certainly dressed up for a day in.”

“I could hardly spend two days in a row in my pajamas, and a girl has to have fun where she can. Funny you should mention it, too – I was thinking as I threw this on just now about what an ordeal it used to be to dress for breakfast.” Jack wondered just how much access Phryne had to his inner monologue, and resolved to think more quietly around her. As she leaned forward to serve herself a spoonful of berries, a delicate necklace swung forward and then back against her chest, the long chain drawing a straight line down her sternum and the pendant settling just beneath her neckline. This was not his day.

❦

It was all resolved much too quickly for either of their tastes. Mac called after breakfast to confirm that the as-yet-unnamed virus was indeed the cause of death, and an accidental one. She would be able to inoculate them and free them from their isolation within the week. She was clearly quite proud to have caught and contained what could have been a public health nightmare; but the detectives were chagrined at the easy resolution to their non-case, and already growing antsy from house arrest. Both received the news with grateful smiles, but quickly excused themselves to different corners of the house. 

Neither Jack nor Phryne were well-suited to boredom. She exercised, finished reading a short novel, wrote several letters, and rearranged the art in the hallway all before tea. Now, stretched out of the window seat with a mostly forgotten book, she surrendered to wishful thinking. She desperately wanted a drive, now that the option was unavailable to her. Driving with Jack was always a pleasure, even if it was wrong to be amused at his anxiety. She imagined taking a turn with too much speed, the centrifugal force sending the detective sliding to her side. He’d be terribly flustered, of course, but he also wouldn’t go all the way back to his side of the car. Or perhaps she’d let him drive and see how much she could distract him. He was a desperately boring driver but an experienced one, and she let herself fantasize about how much she could do to him before he’d have to pull over. 

“What terrifying ideas are you concocting in there?” Jack gestured at her head as he entered and she snapped out of her reverie with an eye roll. 

Jack, for his part, had been eagerly picking up tasks in the kitchen and garden all morning, and there was a flush high on his cheekbones. “Just daydreams about the outside world, Jack.”

“And this weak and idle theme...” He trailed off, picking up a severe-looking book off a side table, slipping two fingers between its pages to open to a bookmark.

“No more yielding but a dream.” Phryne finished the quote for him with a scoff. “I hope you’re making dividends from Mr. Shakespeare’s estate the way you carry on.” She’d intended no bitterness, but boredom made her crabby. 

Jack raised his eyebrows at her, looking neither amused nor irritated. “Shall I sit silently, then? Or shall I go to the other room and leave you to your important musings?” He closed the book in his hand and looked plainly at her. 

Phryne bit back a retort and lifted her book. Leaving him with no response was childish, but his presence was damned frustrating. Just now, she wanted him lying beneath her or not at all. Jack reopened his own book and they sat quietly, but Phryne was itching for something.

“But don’t you think,” she began several minutes later, “that there ought to be more to do? Surely there’s at least some questioning to be done about this. Where did the victim even contract such a disease?” 

Jack didn’t respond. Phryne flicked her eyes back to the page, but her mind was still grasping at straws. 

Another while went by, several pages flipped. “And shouldn’t they want to know more about us? After all, we could drop dead tomorrow for all they know.” 

Jack sat back in his armchair and uncrossed his legs, resting his hands and the book against his thighs. “Miss Fisher, even I don’t wish for cases to unsolve themselves. There’s nothing more to say.” He fixed her with a politely (handsomely) exasperated look.

She hummed dissatisfactorily. Tea soon arrived, and Jack set his saucer down next to him and continued reading. Phryne sipped without realizing, until her cup was empty and she had thought of no less than four ways this might still be a murder case. 

“You know, Jack—” 

“Miss Fisher, if you object to my finishing a single sentence of this book, I wish you would tell me.” 

She was taken aback, but a smile curled her lips. “Jack Robinson, that was nearly a scold. Something else you learned from your mother?” 

He looked caught (as if they hadn’t built this thing between them over his constant reproaches). She shrugged. “Not to worry. Scold me anytime, Inspector.” She said his title like it was a pet name between them, husky and saccharine. “Just don’t expect me to take any heed.”

That wary look was back on his face, and his tone was studiously casual. “I’ve long given up on having expectations of you, Miss Fisher.”

“Have you, Jack?” She quirked an eyebrow.

(He had not. He expected her at every murder, but not at most of the burglaries. He expected her to have a last-ditch revelation just when he’d begun to despair of ever solving a case. He expected her to open the door to him, no matter how late, and pour them a couple of whiskeys. But it seemed a sacrilegious thing to expect anything from Phryne Fisher, so he smiled wryly at her and went back to his book. )

Phryne trained her own eyes on the words before her, but her focus was on her periphery. Jack’s brow, set low over his eyes when he was deep in thought. The downturned corners of his mouth, she always wondered at; his full lips were nearly always set in a frown, but it never looked unpleasant, or even particularly unhappy. He was only... stern, she supposed was the word. It excited her. This was as good a case as any, really, and it was quite a break to have him here for her observation. If she could stand it, she’d make considerable progress in her private study of Jack Robinson this week. 

That straight-laced, buttoned-up brick wall of a man only became more of a mystery the more she knew him, or perhaps her desire to understand him is what grew. Key realizations–the wartime roots of his obsession with procedure, his autodidactic nature and working-class roots, his need for control–always intrigued her even more; she was always desperately curious about how these things played out in the areas of his life she didn’t see. Her mind had often returned, since realizing it, to how a certain need for authority might translate to the bedroom. She had once been intrigued all night, in fact, to several glorious… realizations. But here he was, all hers for an entire week, and all she seemed to do was bicker with him or avoid him. She did _try_ to slow her mind’s machinations and refocus on the Prichard serial in front of her, but it was so much more fun to devise ways to catch him off guard.

❦

Jack rose first, a few hours later, and announced he was going up to bathe and dress for supper. Phryne only glanced up in acknowledgement, but as he left the room a smirk crept onto her lips. She waited to hear the water run, then tossed her reading aside and made her way to the kitchen with a question for Mr. Butler.

When the water stopped running, Phryne was at the base of the stairs, a basket of linens propped against her hip. She heard a door close and darted up the stairs on tiptoes, then rapped once on the door before letting heself in.

“Miss Fisher!” Jack’s grip on his towel briefly loosened in shock, and it fell dangerously low on his hips. He was still damp, skin glistening, a drop of water trickling down between his stomach muscles into a trail of golden hair. Phryne congratulated herself on finding this, the best possible use of her observational skills. 

“Jack.” She swallowed surreptitiously and continued. “I’m sorry to have interrupted your dressing.” (She was not.)

“Is this not the guest bedroom?” He spluttered, at a loss. It was, of course, one of them. Jack knew this, as he’d been told to sleep there.

“Certainly, but as I thought you were in the bathroom, I let myself in to bring up fresh towels. Mr. Butler seemed very busy doing some sort of magic on the silver, and I thought I would take something off his plate and deal with the linen basket.” It was too much of an explanation to ring true, and they both knew it. Phryne stared obviously, daring him to call her out. She could see the gears turning behind his eyes–had she come here to catch him like this, to throw him off for her own amusement as she sometimes did? Or just to snoop around his room? Little did he know, she was sure, that it was as simple as being _very_ understimulated (in more ways than one).

Jack was striking in the low light. His bone structure was thrown into stark relief with only the bedside lamp lit; sharp cheekbones cutting out shadows on his cheeks, the corner of his jaw outlined in darkness, his eyes shining in the shade beneath his brow. She was musing again, damn it. But then, she had come all the way here just to stare. And his hair, dark and soft-looking and falling every which way about his head...

“You can set those on the bed, Miss Fisher, and I will see you at dinner.” His voice rang with finality, and she felt a little like she’d been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. She didn’t mind. She snuck a last glance and excused herself, looking forward to another deliciously tense meal.

##    
  


## Day 4

It had been three long days of the inspector in her house, eating her food, reading her books, playing her records. She should have been irritated by him by day two. She did not, as a rule, keep men in the house who were not in her employ. They were always inconvenient, and often dreadfully tiresome. But her frustration was of the opposite kind, the kind that requires a hand between her legs at night and a pillow to bite down on, or he would hear her through the shared wall of their rooms.

The fourth day was much the same as the others, and by lunch the ennui had set in. Phryne ate until she could scarcely breathe (having nothing else to do) and collapsed for a brief nap on the chaise. She woke to a knock on the door, and saw Dot fly down the stairs to answer it, then take a few steps back from the threshold . Still sleepy, she couldn’t overhear much, but presumably it was Constable Collins dropping off more casework for the Inspector. After a few moments the door closed, and a beautifully blushing Dot came in to hand a stack of manila folders to the Detective.

“Thank you, Miss Williams,” came that deep voice, slightly scratchy, from the armchair across from her. She hadn’t noticed–had he also dozed off, right there while she was sleeping? Something about that thrilled her.

Jack flicked open the first of the small pile of folders in his lap, then set his jaw in his hand and stared down at the page. Phryne watched as the sleepy haziness in his gaze was replaced with that bright, sharp look she knew so well. Those eyes didn’t miss anything. Maybe her guard was down so soon after waking up, or maybe because she was just so bored, she found herself thinking of that brilliant focus applied to other contexts. Like undressing her, for example. Her mind went so quickly from the parlor to the gutter, sometimes she amazed herself. He was so solid, so _good_ and _right_... she’d probably never wanted to corrupt anyone more, and she’d definitely never been so hesitant to actually do it. But he was no more than a meter away from her, and she was overwhelmed by the urge to knock that paperwork off his lap and... warmth rushed over her, insisting on acknowledgement, and if she hadn’t been so bothered she would have rolled her eyes at herself. She stood suddenly and was out the door, calling back to Jack that she would see him at dinner, and taking the stairs two at a time to get to her bedroom.

❦

Jack had long since adjusted his sense of time to account for the appearance of the lady detective in his life. It was less a linear progression, now, than a circling dance, time spent with her and time spent away, always returning and always parting again. The measure of a conversation wasn’t minutes, but the lengths between flirtatious banter and high-speed deduction; the week was marked by their nightcaps and mad adventures as much as by his actual work schedule. It was a messy, imprecise thing, but if he’d been asked under oath he’d swear the time passed twice as slowly when she was gone.

It was getting late by the time he’d made a dent in his paperwork, and when he checked the time he was surprised he hadn’t been called to dinner yet. (Funny, how natural it seemed now to think of himself being _called to dinner_.) He found Miss Williams in the dining room, knitting with her chair pushed back from the set table. 

“Hello Detective! I hope your work is moving along.”

“Yes, thank you, Miss Williams. I wonder if you know where Miss Fisher is?” 

“I believe she wasn’t feeling quite herself after her nap this afternoon and went up to rest. You’re welcome to check on her, in fact, and see about dinner.” Jack thought there might be some humor behind the placidly lovely expression on her face as she answered. He was alarmed, remembering the reason for their quarantine, to hear she wasn’t perfectly well. He was probably being paranoid, if Miss Fisher’s devoted companion didn’t seem concerned, but he would check on her anyway. Besides, he was hungry.

As he raised his fist to knock, he realized for a moment the absurdity of the action. A week ago, standing casually on the second floor of her home would have been unthinkable, and here he was, ready to call through her bedroom door. He fancied this new… familiarity to be a result of their situation, both quietly nervous of the mysterious infection, discomfited by their uselessness in the face of it. Really, he should have guessed she would get him in a situation like this one way or another. It was very _them_. He smiled ruefully and rapped his knuckles against the polished wood. 

“Miss Fisher? Are you well? Miss Williams said…” He heard a small commotion, then the door swung open. 

Not a hair was out of place, none of her ensemble was askew, but there was a bright flush high on her cheekbones, and her pupils were dark and wide. Her breath seemed to be coming just a bit too fast. Either she did have a fever, or... or. He did _not_ think it, for the record. 

“I was feeling out of sorts, is all. Too much lunch.” She shrugged, in the casual way that usually meant she was doing something on a case he wouldn’t approve of and trying to throw him off the scent. God help him.

“I thought of calling Dr. MacMillan.” He said, since it was a thing to say.

“Certainly not! I’m perfectly well. Besides, she’s got a lovely new intern holed up there with her. Sounds like a very keen young woman; I shouldn’t think to disturb them at their work.” Phryne winked, and Jack didn’t hold back an amused smile in return. “Shall we go down?” 

She was out the door and down the stairs in a breath, leaving Jack, as always, blinking after her.

❦

Miss Fisher was especially catlike in the morning and evening, when sleepiness settled in her limbs. She stretched lazily on the divan, arching her lower back and flexing her arms out with a contented yawn. It must have been hours since dinner, but she’d kept pouring the whiskey, and he’d kept accepting it. They’d been aimlessly lounging, not always talking, not always reading either. There was that current in the air again, but Jack put it down to the whiskey and let himself look at her. It was a heady thing, being close to her like this, and he might as well enjoy it while he could. Some time passed before he found it in himself to separate from her.

“It’s getting very late, Miss Fisher, I think I’ll turn in.” She pouted, of course.

“You needn’t have so much self-control, Jack. Grab the decanter. Live a little.” She was only teasing, but his self-control felt weaker every minute. 

“Self-discipline is a virtue, Miss Fisher, at least in _my_ line of work.”

She glared at him. “Stoicist.”

“Hedonist,” he shot back, taking the bait. Phryne shrugged. 

“I’ll never deny that, Jack. It’s a lifestyle of many virtues.” She leaned back as she spoke, shoulders relaxed and chest forward, as if to illustrate her point. When she brought her whiskey up to her lips and took a slow sip, Jack’s eyes followed her hand, then traveled down her throat as she swallowed. 

He’d had too much to drink to come up with any more retorts. “Good night, Miss Fisher.” He tipped his head to her, but she uncoiled and rose. 

“Fine, you can walk me to my door then.” She smirked, and strode past him through the doors. He followed closely, and he should have known better, because just as they passed the threshold she turned on her heel so he would nearly walk into her, her chest to his. “I just remembered,” her voice was so low it was almost a whisper, and they were so close he felt her warm breath on his face, “that Mr. Butler has already gone up. You’ll have to get the lights.” He could feel her warm breath on his face, the smell of whiskey and French perfume all around him, setting his every nerve alight. He took one step back to press the button, and then they were alone in the dark. She had moved even closer, eyes shining imperiously back at him, and he leaned into her, every muscle tensed against the impulses she was trying so hard to unleash.

It was a struggle to keep his voice even. “Miss Fisher, I would warn you that my patience is not unlimited.”

She wasn’t smirking any more. Her lips were slightly parted, anticipating. “I hope not, Jack.”

“Be careful what you wish for.” He warned her.

“I’m always careful.”

“Not careful enough.” That came out harshly–too much truth in it.

She didn’t flinch.“That’s why I have you.”

“ _Have_ me?” 

“Haven’t I?” The mask of the seductress hadn’t slipped, but there was a real question behind it. Jack couldn’t stop his eyes from flickering to her lips, his head tilting so their noses nearly touched, her eyelids fluttering nearly closed. He _could_ do this now, this was as close as they’d ever come... he took a deep breath, closed his eyes, opened them again.

“Yes.” He exhaled. “Yes, you have.”

And it was his turn to escape to the stairs, leaving Miss Fisher standing there, pulse hammering, wondering what had just happened.

##    
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love to cackle only to myself as I put off their kiss yet again!! ahh, sweet torture 😇


End file.
